


Slaughter In The Stars

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Blood and Violence, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Pining, Sexual Repression, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unwilling Arousal, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17896661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Bandits catch Gladio and Noct at camp while Ignis and Prompto are away.Gladio does what he needs to do. Neither escape unscathed.





	Slaughter In The Stars

"I'm going to have to do something with this," one of the men says.

There's blood in Gladio's eyes and and the ground is whirling and hard under his knees, runes blurring blue in the dusk, and he knew where this was going from the start.

"Oh. You're gonna fuck a corpse. Great," one of the others says, as the man toes Noct over, and Gladio's cold all over, pins and needles all up and down his arms, but he can't move, cheek against the rock, and Noct's limbs are so slender on the ground next to him, soft, limp. Gladio tries to get up, but the ground spins, and someone's boot digs into his back harder, heel grinding into his spine.

The first man says, "He's not _dead,"_ and there are groans all around, because Noct's not dead, and that's what matters to Gladio, that's all that matters to him, but what matters to _them_ is that there's no fun in watching a man fuck a dead body, and Noct's good as that to them. There's shuffling and the scrape of fabric across pebbles, Noct's boots being dragged this way, that, someone trying to make him stir. Noct's out cold. Gladio's got the leverage to thrash, pushing up with his shoulders until someone hauls him up onto his knees to thrust a foot into his stomach and he doubles over again, feeling his ribs shift the wrong way.

The wind picks up in the trees around them, leaves hushing and laughing.

"Just toss 'em. Gut 'em and toss 'em. We'll get enough."

"Waste, though."

"Yeah, how often do we see this shit? They don't got anywhere to go. Nothing back in the City to go back to, nobody's looking, they'll be dead soon enough and nobody'll care."

"Someone could be expecting them out in Cleigne, relatives or some—"

"So what? Daemons got 'em, shocker."

"Y'all are being downers, come on. Nobody's up for some fun?"

There's another toe to Noct's face— _gods,_ already bruised down the side—whipping his head to an angle, and Gladio jerks without even meaning to.

One of the others says, "Fuck's sake, will you just keep it in your fucking pants, Muscles here's gonna be trouble if you couldn't fucking tell."

The man sighs and says, "He's not gonna be trouble, right, loverboy?"

And he takes a step to the left, and tousles Gladio's hair.

The light touch sends a shiver up Gladio's spine. He wasn't expecting it. It's half a flinch. The man notices.

Notices, and pauses, and better that he does, Gladio realizes—better that his attention is on Gladio than on Noct—but it's an attention that all the struggling in the world couldn't rouse until that shiver, and Gladio knows he's in for it now.

The man makes a slow, thoughtful noise, and there's a restlessness around them, a shifting, and then he deliberately straddles Gladio, one leg on either side of Gladio's knees. Gladio pulls away by instinct, but there's fingers hard at the base of his skull, and the bulge of a cloth-covered crotch is shoved under Gladio's nose, and all the people around him hiss and jeer and sigh, half pissed, half in interest.

"Make it quick, there's more than just these two around," says someone muffled from the back of the crowd, one of those examining their tent, going through their gear; they got through the Regalia already, and now they aren't so interested in pots and pans, playing cards and blankets, not anything left here. Anything left here except the people.

Gladio feels a wave of dizziness, calloused fingers on his throat pulling his chin up. "Quick depends on how good he's at it. Looks like he's had enough practice with that one there. Ain't that right?" Hissing into his ear, fingers in his hair, world spinning. "Or you think you're too good for it? Rich fucker like you?"

"Looks like one of the guard to me," someone contributes.

"Guard's gone, this here's a straggler."

The man lets go of his hair with a last hard twist and Gladio yanks away, off-balance, and then the man draws his pistol and rests it carefully, gleaming, fond, against Gladio's temple.

"Bite and I'll pull the trigger, sweetheart."

Gladio takes a moment to try to re-orient himself, but it doesn't help. He just feels vomit coming up the back of his throat, and he needs to swallow it down. **_Fuck_** _you,_ he tries to snarl, but it's slurred, bloody through his split lip.

And then the man looks again at Gladio, and as Gladio's vision stops swimming finally, he gently removes the barrel of the pistol and aims it, deliberate, at Noct's sprawled form on the ground.

Gladio stills. A bullet at this angle would slice through his gut and hit the stone beneath.

"Think he'll wake up?" the man asks. "Think he'll be able to join the fun, before he bleeds out?" The man can't hide the eagerness there in the lift of his voice.

Noct's face is turned towards them, eyelashes dark on his cheeks, slight furrow in his brow, mouth parted, neck bent unnaturally. There's still a pulse there, under blue-and-white skin. The first knock could have cracked his skull, could've done real damage, but he's still alive, and he needs to stay alive, needs to until the others come back to _fix_ this.

There's the sound of a zipper somewhere in front of him while his gazed is still fixed on Noct. Belt, sliding over rough cloth, hunter's gear, _bandit's_ gear, piece-of-shit gear.

"You're pretty for a big guy," he hears, a thumb pressed to the corner of his lips, dragging them open. "Or tough for a pretty boy. Is that how they all are, up in the Crown City?"

Gladio breathes, breathes through the red haze of his vision, and blinks down at the ground between his knees, and thinks, well. How fucking disappointed would Iggy and Prompto be to learn he couldn't suck dick to save Noct's life?

He doesn't have free hands, but the man guides him by his hair.

 

He's never done this before.

He's _seen_ it done, on shows put on during drunk late-night house parties. In videos on his personal feed when he's been bored and curious and he could hear Iris shouting at the television clear across the house. He's heard about it. He's _had_ it done. He knows how it's supposed to feel.

It's just different to do.

He gets fingers, first, dirt and flaking nails between his teeth, pressing bitter into his tongue, like they need to test the temperature first, the depth, make sure nothing's in there that shouldn't be. The fingers rub against his tongue and the insides of his cheeks like they're trying to draw moisture up, and then withdraw, pulling wetness from his mouth and smearing it across his jaw.

Then the guy's cock comes to replace them.

The skin is warm, smooth, rolling soft and foreign against his lips and tongue. The taste is disgusting, faint salt and sweat and—not as bad as it could be, a smell like deoderant and skin under his nose, like he's at least washed. The guy's not that big, but he _feels_ big, cock spreading Gladio's lips open around it as he presses down and in.

Gladio pulls back and strains against the bonds at his wrists again, a reflex against the strangeness of it, the whirl of thoughts about _here_ and _now,_ and he gets a yank forward by the shirt for the trouble—and then he's off-balance and tipping forward and it's just the hands on either side of his face keeping him up, and cock shoving into his mouth again _,_ hot heavy like a piston, close like it's trying to impale him, and faraway he can hear chatter and laughter like one of those house parties again, the ones he could never get too drunk at because people who knew him would _see_.

There's nobody here who knows him. There's plenty who don't. They're watching him now.

They're not watching Noct, and that's good.

There's a rhythm to it, a taste that's familiar. He hasn't done this before, hasn't done _anything_ _like_ this in—in a long time, but it's not so different from a girl's hands around his head or thighs around his face, salt slick across his lips, just as much sweat and skin and heat and damp, and that thought sends a chill down his spine. He hasn't been touched really in months, in what feels like years. Not with this sort of urgency.

His mouth is too dry for this, but the man isn't complaining, doesn't even seem aware—just pushes in, length filling Gladio's mouth and pressing against the roof of it, past his teeth and past his lips, growing sticky. That first thrust against his palate is enough to send him gagging, and his throat works as the man withdraws—a strand of drool now trailing from the tip of his cock to Gladio's mouth, wet enough _now,_ watering in unintentional expectation.

Gladio chokes once, coughs. Then the man shoves his head back in and lifts his hips to meet him.

A fluid sigh comes from somewhere above his head, and this _can't_ feel good, he's not doing anything. He refuses to suck down, but the man tugs him forward again roughly, spittle sliding up his shaft, and he gasps, gags, tastes spit and blood and feels his eyes water, swimming hot. The man doesn't stop, and Gladio has to breathe through his nose, pace himself around the man fucking his throat, pace himself around the dull stab of his ribs at every inhale.

Everything about it is uncomfortable. The rock under his knees, the clammy numbness of his arms behind his back; the piercing pain in his side and in his head; the leather riding up his back where hands are grabbing at his collar and yanking at his shoulders and his sleeves are slipping and his belt is sliding down; Noct's still form, closed eyes, pale face, just five feet away, vulnerable.

"He could've asked nicely," he hears in distant muffled laughter, and "see what they were out here for now, fellas," and "shut your mouths," with a groan, and the noises the man makes go oddly to his gut, and he feels hot, heat in his cheeks and blood rushing between his thighs, where—he realises—it's been sinking for a while now.

Fuck.

Not like _this_ , he thinks, fury building in his chest. This was meant to be something—he wanted, with someone who wanted—who fucking cares. No point. No point in hating it _now_.

No point, hell, he could just—

 

He'd stumbled across someone doing this to Noct once.

He's stumbled across Noct doing pretty much everything and anything that the kid could do in the ten years they'd known each other now. Iggy, too—close quarters, all of them, but all of Insomnia was close quarters, everybody knew everything. And it was their job to make sure there were only so many everybodies and only so much everything, so it was Iggy who always laundered the sheets the year Noct turned eighteen, and Gladio who had the car waiting and the walk in front of the apartment clear of photographers, and Gladio who opened the front door once to find that Noct and that kid who always kept the game café open late for him on weekends had made it four steps out of the shower, knees leaving wet spots on the floor and his hands leaving prints at knee-height on the wall, the sun quietly coming up in the kitchen behind them.

They hadn't even stopped. Gladio'd shut the door again, and blinked until he couldn't picture the blush Noct's neck, his head thrown back and his ribs sharp with sucked-in breath. Two months later that café had closed down and Noct had moved on: Gladio can't even remember what the kid had looked like.

The guiltiest thing about it all is that three weeks after they saw the smoking skyline of Insomnia in the distance—two weeks after Iris called on the phone, shaken but fine—two days after they'd made it back to the Prairie Outpost for the third time, nobody taking a second look at them but the scarred-up hunters at the local pub deep into tankards of beer and husky singing from the little patio they called a stage, bright roving eyes, friendly glances, scarves undone in the dark—

Gladio had stood in the shower, his cock half-hard in his hand, and thought, maybe, maybe now, maybe now nobody was looking, maybe now that nobody would ever reach for him and pull back because of family or duty or honor or a million things that meant nothing all the way out here in the dark—

They left in the morning anyway, and that frantic damp _maybe_ was shelved in the back of his mind, along with so many other things that he'd never guarded closely enough. He had enough to protect without having to worry about his own half-cocked _maybes_.

 

It's neverending. He's going to give them what they want, even if what the want is a sloppy blowjob with too much teeth and too much coughing (they want him to sob, that's what they want, and maybe he'll give them that too, but they'll have to fight for it), bruised lips and harsh gasping (from the shards of bone in his side, that's all it is). He can't bite so he sucks, jaw aching, feels the guy jerk against the inside of his cheek and come, salty and wet down his throat, chokes it down, feels the flesh soft against his tongue before someone else steps up, and fine. Do it, he thinks. Let someone else have a turn before they get bored, before they start looking for fun in other places, places closeby.

Someone's fingers are dipping into his waistband. He's missed the feel of hands on his hips, nails digging into the small of his back. Someone moans in his mouth, and maybe it's him. He thinks there's hands around his throat. He thinks he might be delirious.

It's been so long and so much, black swimming beneath his eyelids and pulse thrumming in his ears and fury hot and cold in his veins, that he misses the movement that skims a trickle of frigid air across the sweat-sticky skin between his hiked-up shirt and trousers, too cold to be natural on a night like this—and only then he registers the strangled cry and chorus of curses.

Gladio _feels_ himself being jerked backwards, like a push that doesn't end when he hits the ground, because he doesn't hit the ground.

There's grass under him then, under his back and his neck, soft and wet and tickling. The sky isn't where it used to be, and he's alone, nothing but the sound of crickets and distant shouting. He blinks and the vertigo of it, together with the bitter taste in his mouth, makes him roll over painstakingly and vomit into a puddle next to him.

He feels the magic thrum, flickering, for a moment, as he stares into the shadows of the blades of grass beneath him, the dripping of dew and vomit darkening the dirt. His head clears with the sensation, and sound returns slowly, like emerging from deep water.

He spits, and slowly rolls over, and spits again, and then again for good measure, counting out a dozen heartbeats before Noct blinks back into existence in the clearing, breathing hard and hysterical, smelling like sour smoke and blood.

"Gladio," he gasps, and there are fingers fumbling at the leather straps and nylon cord around Gladio's wrists behind his back. Gladio doesn't move, lets him handle it. It takes an eternity for the bonds to loosen, and Noct rolls him over, too quickly—he can feel the creak of bone and muscle where he shouldn't.

Gladio's voice is hoarse when he speaks, rough, throat aching and burning from retching. "Where..." he rasps. "Wh..."

"They're gone now," Noct says, sharp and frightened at once, eyes wild and tinged with ancient crimson, and Gladio thinks, with a split-second clarity, that Noct's killed them.

The men. Not daemons, not monsters, not magitek infantry. Maybe he hasn't. But Noct is whole, throat bruised and bloody scrape all the way down the side of his temple to his jaw, blood matted in his hair, and Gladio doesn't care much either way right now whose it is if it's not Noct's.

Gladio thinks of Noct's eyes fluttering closed, his mouth parted and cheeks reddened. He thinks of Noct, limp on the ground, grimy fingers around his wrists.

There's the spark of static dancing across his skin, pinpricks, and he doesn't realize that Noct's used a potion on him until then—hi-potion, his breath catching as his ribs knit themselves back together, heat sweeping under his skin.

He sits up. "Iggy and Prompto?" Even his vocal chords feel stronger again. His voice wavers anyway. He hates it with a passion.

Noct looks like he's still high on adrenaline, still alert and looking for an escape, words coming rapid from his mouth. "They should be back soon—we've got to go back, they're going to wonder where we are if they come back, those guys—"

"You? You okay?" Gladio's heart is still thudding, dull, in his chest. He still aches between his legs.

"Yeah. Let's just _go_ , okay? Ig—Ignis'll know what to do."

Gladio casts a quick glance over at that, at the pitch of panic in Noct's voice, at the hurt tone like pleading. Noct's not hiding an injury. Gladio would know. But Noct's not looking at him, either. Noct adjusts the front of his trousers, head ducked and cheeks flaming and—oh. fuck.

There's a heavy, thick silence, like the world grinding to a halt. Noct looks away from Gladio.

They had been playing _cards._ Before the men had come. Gladio remembers that now. Noct had been laughing about Gladio's hand, and Gladio had been watching him, the tendons of his elbow against the dark fabric of his knee, the rise of his shoulders tensed with mirth. It had been so fucking _stupid._

The sun's almost gone, leaving them in the dark out here, away from the road. Noct looks away from Gladio.

The carnage of the camp is waiting.

Gladio grimaces. He wipes the backs of his knuckles across his mouth.

"Let's get back," he says.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Gladio is in some kind of situation where he has to get on his knees and suck cock if he wants Noct to not be harmed. Bonus points for either a straight Gladio or a bi-curious Gladio that’s never sucked dick before. Make it humiliating."


End file.
